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xp_logs[Backdated] Beatrice makes her way to Haller's suite to offer a meal.
The rapping at Haller's door was... gentle, in a way that belied the repeated knocking that followed. Bea's face was burning, entirely unrelated to the hot plate in her oven mitt shielded hands, unable to stop the slight squeak that left her when the door finally opened. "D-David! I, uh, I made you some brisket and latkes. Sorry, I forgot the homemade applesauce in the suite."
From the expression on Jim's face it was clear that, of all the mansion blondes he might be expecting to knock on his door, the diminutive telepath was not one of them. It took him perhaps a split second too long to remember that his mouth should be doing something.
"Oh, Beatrice, hey. I -- thank you?"
A beaming smile quickly overcame any ounce of discomfort that may have been visible to the tall man. "Of course, I...well, I'll be honest, I cross referenced a lot of recipes, but, I think I, uh," with a deep inhale, she paused, closed her eyes, then upon reopening them, looked into his eyes the best she could. "I think I got it in the end."
"Would you mind if I came in to set it down?"
"Oh, sure." It took some effort to make the simple act of stepping aside seem awkward, but Jim rose to the challenge. It was like watching a laundry rack fold into itself. Fortunately Kev wasn't around; he wasn't sure how well the other man would react to a stranger in his space.
"That . . . smells incredible, actually," Jim remarked as Beatrice moved into the suite, the scent of brisket wafting behind her. "Do you cook often?"
"Not as much as I'd like,” she admitted with a sigh, a slight raise of her shoulders. “I always end up making too much, and I hate wasting food, so I’ve taken to buying easy meal stuff, frozen dinners that have the proper nutrients for my lifestyle and I, uh, have a bit of a problem handling red meat nowadays. . . Sorry, I feel like that’s a long way to say I don’t personally cook every single day.” A flush spread as she continued, eyes scanning the countertop before she gestured to the cabinets, motion obviously meant to ask where she could find dishes as she tried to explain herself.
“And I’m sorry, I should have asked about allergens, but I promise it’s kosher because, I thought, well, I mean I think I heard you’re Jewish?”
Soft, embarrassed of being told she was wrong, but eyes meeting his still.
"My mother is, yes, but I'm not observant. Uh -- I appreciate it, though," he added hastily, noting her hesitation. "Kosher tends to line up with my tastes. I still don't see the appeal of pork." Noticing how her eyes flicked in search of flatware, Jim waved the small woman towards the stools at the counter. "Please, sit down. Do you want something to drink? Sorry about the clutter, my suitemate was experimenting with some art supplies."
Her lips parted, though no sound came as she followed the motion to gingerly seat herself. Finally, she took in the suit, interest piqued in the clutter he referred to. A smile starting her amusement, her hands folded in her lap. “Well that seems like a nice mess to have, but no need to apologize, I can’t judge anyone for their suitemates.”
“And I agree on pork. . .” There was a grimace as she trailed off before she tried to smile again. “I’m sorry I assumed.”
Jim joined her at the counter in a light clatter of tableware and cutlery. Like many bachelors, matching plates were only accidental. In deference to Beatrice's fastidiousness and what was surely not a veiled reference to Jessica's habits, however, he had brought napkins.
"Please, don't worry about it," he said. He arched an eyebrow at her. "I'm sorry, now I'm the one assuming. Join me?"
At the offer, Bea's mouth opened, shut, repeated as color bloomed in her face, before she nodded shyly. "I'd love to."
The gangly telepath slid the extra plate toward Beatrice and took the seat across from her. There was a short pause as he served himself. That wasn't his normal inclination, but by the time the two of them had finished demuring over who went first and what portion size was appropriate the food would have been stone cold.
"So, is there something on your mind?" Jim asked, swiveling the dish so the serving utensils faced her like a carousel of nutrition. "Not to imply you have an ulterior motive, I mean, just making conversation."
Her smile froze on her lips, throat tightening as her eyes dropped to her plate. The shallow movement of her chest was the only indicator she was breathing, before unsteady hands reached for utensils as if on autopilot, dividing the food into parts, neatly sectioned so that nothing touched.
"Creed," finally came from her lips like an icy breeze.
Jim's whole body went still, like a man happening upon a wounded doe. Slowly, he set down his fork.
"Have you heard something?" he asked, voice neutral, disarming. He searched her face, trying and failing to catch her downcast eyes. "Has he tried to get in touch with you?"
"No," the cry was accompanied by the clatter of her silverware, as her fingers flew open to hold her hands open in a plea. She cringed at the sound of metal on ceramic, wrapping her arms around herself as she clenched her eyes closed and dug her nails into the tender flesh of her upper arms.
Keeping her eyes shut, she focused on evening her breathing, counting down. In, one two, out, one two.
Her lashes fluttered open, as she regained a sense of composure. "Apologies, David, I. . . I haven't been sleeping well lately, he's been on my mind because I. . ." She steeled herself. "I think I'm a little happy, and. . .well, I'm afraid he's going to appear and ruin it. I mean after what he's already done, I know I'm not going to live forever." There was a soft, wry laugh, shoulders raising to tuck her scarred cheek against the fabric.
"I see." Jim's posture relaxed. Until the moment had passed, one might not even have realized the set of his shoulders had seemed to belong to a very different man.
"I think that uncertainty is a normal thing to feel when you've been in an unsafe situation for a long time," he continued. "You're so used to defending yourself that you don't know what to do when no one's attacking you anymore. Waiting for a blow that doesn't come . . . that can be nerve-wracking on its own. And, like you said, now you feel like you have something to lose." He sat back in his chair and offered her a smile, lopsided and nonthreatening. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but it's a good thing. It means you're finally feeling safe enough to start processing the things you couldn't before. Maybe you're starting to trust the people around you a little, too."
There was a heartbeat before a soft attempt at a laugh escaped, her own shoulder's slumping from the tense hold they'd been in, as her blue-green eyes met his own blue and brown. Before they dropped again, teeth beginning to worry her lower lip again as she took in his words. "I think. . . I think you're right." Came the soft admittance
"What do I do now?" It was an earnest question, as her brows knit together.
"Just what you have been doing. Talk to people. Live your life. If you feel unsafe or unsure, come to us." Jim ran a hand through his hair, and the chuckle he gave was edged in the self-deprecation of do as I say, not as I do. "It might be hard, but resist the urge to withdraw -- especially if you feel threatened. It may feel like the safer option, especially where Creed is concerned, but isolation makes you vulnerable. Remember that you came here for help. We said we would, and we meant it. All you have to do is ask."
"I. . . thank you, David," she murmured, brow easing as she exhaled, did her best to relax her form. Her hand was light on the edge of his as the edges of her lips tilted up. And in her centering, there were no thoughts loose from inside her mind, carefully shielded. Carefully, she brought a forkful of food to her mouth, chewed mechanically as she fought to find the words.
Beatrice swallowed thickly, reaching for her napkin to dab at her lips. Bringing the fabric back into her lap, she twisted it, knuckles turning white from pressure as wrist turned, taunt above the skirt of her dress.
"Would it. . . would it be untoward to ask that if there's any news of him, you. . . would you tell me?"
"Of course," Jim said automatically. He was shocked Beatrice had initiated physical contact, however brief, and even more startled to realize how quiet her mind had been. Touch sharpened his telepathy, particularly between other telepaths, but he had encountered no kneejerk defense or reaction of any sort. He hadn't slammed into a barrier; rather, the other woman's thoughts had been naturally . . . contained. Like a ball of yarn securely wrapped and safely stowed. It was as if, even psychically, she had come to the habit of making herself as small and unobtrusive as possible.
What a lonely life.
"Of course," he repeated, more naturally this time. "When it happens, if it happens, we'll keep you in the loop. We have options if it comes to that. But, in the meantime, try not to worry about it. Right now, living your life is the best thing you can do for yourself."
"If," she echoed the word back, shoulders relaxing as she mouth the word as if it were a prayer. Collecting herself, Bea chirped a soft laugh. "You're right, David, I. . . I'm so sorry, I must seems so silly. And now I'm ruining the meal I made for you. Please, eat."
And if the smile on her face was soft, eyes distant, who could blame her?
The rapping at Haller's door was... gentle, in a way that belied the repeated knocking that followed. Bea's face was burning, entirely unrelated to the hot plate in her oven mitt shielded hands, unable to stop the slight squeak that left her when the door finally opened. "D-David! I, uh, I made you some brisket and latkes. Sorry, I forgot the homemade applesauce in the suite."
From the expression on Jim's face it was clear that, of all the mansion blondes he might be expecting to knock on his door, the diminutive telepath was not one of them. It took him perhaps a split second too long to remember that his mouth should be doing something.
"Oh, Beatrice, hey. I -- thank you?"
A beaming smile quickly overcame any ounce of discomfort that may have been visible to the tall man. "Of course, I...well, I'll be honest, I cross referenced a lot of recipes, but, I think I, uh," with a deep inhale, she paused, closed her eyes, then upon reopening them, looked into his eyes the best she could. "I think I got it in the end."
"Would you mind if I came in to set it down?"
"Oh, sure." It took some effort to make the simple act of stepping aside seem awkward, but Jim rose to the challenge. It was like watching a laundry rack fold into itself. Fortunately Kev wasn't around; he wasn't sure how well the other man would react to a stranger in his space.
"That . . . smells incredible, actually," Jim remarked as Beatrice moved into the suite, the scent of brisket wafting behind her. "Do you cook often?"
"Not as much as I'd like,” she admitted with a sigh, a slight raise of her shoulders. “I always end up making too much, and I hate wasting food, so I’ve taken to buying easy meal stuff, frozen dinners that have the proper nutrients for my lifestyle and I, uh, have a bit of a problem handling red meat nowadays. . . Sorry, I feel like that’s a long way to say I don’t personally cook every single day.” A flush spread as she continued, eyes scanning the countertop before she gestured to the cabinets, motion obviously meant to ask where she could find dishes as she tried to explain herself.
“And I’m sorry, I should have asked about allergens, but I promise it’s kosher because, I thought, well, I mean I think I heard you’re Jewish?”
Soft, embarrassed of being told she was wrong, but eyes meeting his still.
"My mother is, yes, but I'm not observant. Uh -- I appreciate it, though," he added hastily, noting her hesitation. "Kosher tends to line up with my tastes. I still don't see the appeal of pork." Noticing how her eyes flicked in search of flatware, Jim waved the small woman towards the stools at the counter. "Please, sit down. Do you want something to drink? Sorry about the clutter, my suitemate was experimenting with some art supplies."
Her lips parted, though no sound came as she followed the motion to gingerly seat herself. Finally, she took in the suit, interest piqued in the clutter he referred to. A smile starting her amusement, her hands folded in her lap. “Well that seems like a nice mess to have, but no need to apologize, I can’t judge anyone for their suitemates.”
“And I agree on pork. . .” There was a grimace as she trailed off before she tried to smile again. “I’m sorry I assumed.”
Jim joined her at the counter in a light clatter of tableware and cutlery. Like many bachelors, matching plates were only accidental. In deference to Beatrice's fastidiousness and what was surely not a veiled reference to Jessica's habits, however, he had brought napkins.
"Please, don't worry about it," he said. He arched an eyebrow at her. "I'm sorry, now I'm the one assuming. Join me?"
At the offer, Bea's mouth opened, shut, repeated as color bloomed in her face, before she nodded shyly. "I'd love to."
The gangly telepath slid the extra plate toward Beatrice and took the seat across from her. There was a short pause as he served himself. That wasn't his normal inclination, but by the time the two of them had finished demuring over who went first and what portion size was appropriate the food would have been stone cold.
"So, is there something on your mind?" Jim asked, swiveling the dish so the serving utensils faced her like a carousel of nutrition. "Not to imply you have an ulterior motive, I mean, just making conversation."
Her smile froze on her lips, throat tightening as her eyes dropped to her plate. The shallow movement of her chest was the only indicator she was breathing, before unsteady hands reached for utensils as if on autopilot, dividing the food into parts, neatly sectioned so that nothing touched.
"Creed," finally came from her lips like an icy breeze.
Jim's whole body went still, like a man happening upon a wounded doe. Slowly, he set down his fork.
"Have you heard something?" he asked, voice neutral, disarming. He searched her face, trying and failing to catch her downcast eyes. "Has he tried to get in touch with you?"
"No," the cry was accompanied by the clatter of her silverware, as her fingers flew open to hold her hands open in a plea. She cringed at the sound of metal on ceramic, wrapping her arms around herself as she clenched her eyes closed and dug her nails into the tender flesh of her upper arms.
Keeping her eyes shut, she focused on evening her breathing, counting down. In, one two, out, one two.
Her lashes fluttered open, as she regained a sense of composure. "Apologies, David, I. . . I haven't been sleeping well lately, he's been on my mind because I. . ." She steeled herself. "I think I'm a little happy, and. . .well, I'm afraid he's going to appear and ruin it. I mean after what he's already done, I know I'm not going to live forever." There was a soft, wry laugh, shoulders raising to tuck her scarred cheek against the fabric.
"I see." Jim's posture relaxed. Until the moment had passed, one might not even have realized the set of his shoulders had seemed to belong to a very different man.
"I think that uncertainty is a normal thing to feel when you've been in an unsafe situation for a long time," he continued. "You're so used to defending yourself that you don't know what to do when no one's attacking you anymore. Waiting for a blow that doesn't come . . . that can be nerve-wracking on its own. And, like you said, now you feel like you have something to lose." He sat back in his chair and offered her a smile, lopsided and nonthreatening. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but it's a good thing. It means you're finally feeling safe enough to start processing the things you couldn't before. Maybe you're starting to trust the people around you a little, too."
There was a heartbeat before a soft attempt at a laugh escaped, her own shoulder's slumping from the tense hold they'd been in, as her blue-green eyes met his own blue and brown. Before they dropped again, teeth beginning to worry her lower lip again as she took in his words. "I think. . . I think you're right." Came the soft admittance
"What do I do now?" It was an earnest question, as her brows knit together.
"Just what you have been doing. Talk to people. Live your life. If you feel unsafe or unsure, come to us." Jim ran a hand through his hair, and the chuckle he gave was edged in the self-deprecation of do as I say, not as I do. "It might be hard, but resist the urge to withdraw -- especially if you feel threatened. It may feel like the safer option, especially where Creed is concerned, but isolation makes you vulnerable. Remember that you came here for help. We said we would, and we meant it. All you have to do is ask."
"I. . . thank you, David," she murmured, brow easing as she exhaled, did her best to relax her form. Her hand was light on the edge of his as the edges of her lips tilted up. And in her centering, there were no thoughts loose from inside her mind, carefully shielded. Carefully, she brought a forkful of food to her mouth, chewed mechanically as she fought to find the words.
Beatrice swallowed thickly, reaching for her napkin to dab at her lips. Bringing the fabric back into her lap, she twisted it, knuckles turning white from pressure as wrist turned, taunt above the skirt of her dress.
"Would it. . . would it be untoward to ask that if there's any news of him, you. . . would you tell me?"
"Of course," Jim said automatically. He was shocked Beatrice had initiated physical contact, however brief, and even more startled to realize how quiet her mind had been. Touch sharpened his telepathy, particularly between other telepaths, but he had encountered no kneejerk defense or reaction of any sort. He hadn't slammed into a barrier; rather, the other woman's thoughts had been naturally . . . contained. Like a ball of yarn securely wrapped and safely stowed. It was as if, even psychically, she had come to the habit of making herself as small and unobtrusive as possible.
What a lonely life.
"Of course," he repeated, more naturally this time. "When it happens, if it happens, we'll keep you in the loop. We have options if it comes to that. But, in the meantime, try not to worry about it. Right now, living your life is the best thing you can do for yourself."
"If," she echoed the word back, shoulders relaxing as she mouth the word as if it were a prayer. Collecting herself, Bea chirped a soft laugh. "You're right, David, I. . . I'm so sorry, I must seems so silly. And now I'm ruining the meal I made for you. Please, eat."
And if the smile on her face was soft, eyes distant, who could blame her?
